


all our lives we're told

by wakeupnew



Series: Clone Wars campaign [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Other, Team as Family, and we wrote tens of thousands of words about our sadness, so my tabletop group had a lot of feelings after finishing our Clone Wars RPG campaign, these are some of my sadness words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22125322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeupnew/pseuds/wakeupnew
Summary: Boomer lives in the moment. They always have. They enjoy themself and they follow orders. They're an excellent soldier — they've never known anything else. They have the rare moment of curiosity, seeing a chef cook a strange-smelling meal over a hot grill on a new planet or watching children run and play, but they've never truly wanted anything else. But they have thought about it for the rest of their squad.
Series: Clone Wars campaign [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592614
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	all our lives we're told

**Author's Note:**

> The tags say it all, really! My tabletop group played a Clone Wars campaign in 2017 and 2018 and I think we were all a little shocked by our collective level of attachment to our clone squad and their Jedi. We produced a massive outpouring of fics, art, and fanmixes for our own tabletop campaign after it ended, because we're not deeply fannish nerds at all.
> 
> The best and funniest interactions in the first part of this fic are things that actually happened during the campaign; I just threw them in a Google Doc and stuck words around them. Credit where credit is due: fellow players [ryfkah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah), [sandrylene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandrylene), [varadia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varadia), [genarti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti), and our amazing GM [jothra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jothra). 
> 
> Also [here's a character primer](https://wakeupnew.tumblr.com/post/190072369169/so-my-tabletop-group-played-a-clone-wars-campaign), because I have no idea how this reads if you didn't spend over a year obsessed with your own tabletop campaign.
> 
> Title drawn from "The Sea" by HAEVN.

Boomer isn’t one to dwell. They push forward; they always have. But it’s impossible not to think about the racks of clones lying deathly silent and still.

What galls the most is that the Clawdite was right. No one noticed. Who knows how many were stolen away from their siblings, dissected for their parts? Like they weren’t individuals; they weren’t people. Just a loose pile of organs and limbs, ripe for the picking. A hand, an eye, a lung, a heart.

The squad saved a dozen, including Killjoy and Trooper Fern. How many more are gone?

Boomer doesn’t, as a general rule, dwell. But they’re not particularly in a mood to celebrate.

However, it would be incredibly ungracious — not a flaw Boomer’s ever been accused of possessing (reckless and ‘too laid-back for your own good’ are more their thing) — to turn down the refugees’ generous offer to share their hospitality. The townspeople are grateful for their rescue and want to share what little they have.

The squad is under orders to attend, for diplomatic reasons, once Knight Tai returns from her comm to the Jedi Council with a face like a thundercloud.

Boomer shakes their shoulders out, and pushes it all down. “Well,” they say, and their squadmates glance over. “I’ve never turned down an invitation to a party in my life, and I’m not about to start now. Where’s the shuttle?”

Boomer may or may not catch the barest hint of movement at the corner of Cog’s mouth.

They like to think they do.

*

There’s not exactly a strict clone trooper protocol for attendance at civilian parties. There's not much of a precedent for it at all. Boomer shakes a lot of hands and accepts a lot of thank-you’s, and possibly a few more drinks than they should.

It may not be entirely appropriate to play in a children’s game of zoneball with a mug of some kind of locally-distilled rotgut in hand, but there are several parents in the game who are doing the same, so it’s not the worst thing Boomer’s ever done, and they couldn’t turn down the kids’ sweet little faces when they insisted on dragging a clone trooper into the game. Besides, Boomer figures trying to protect their mug while playing only adds to their handicap, to make it a fair game.

Boomer’s primary handicap is that they have no idea how the game of zoneball is played, though, which the kids realize very quickly and gleefully take advantage of.

“Sergeant! You have to hop on one leg!” one particular scamp shouts.

“Like this?” Boomer asks, ably hopping, and the little devil is still cackling when Boomer nearly gets their head taken off by an errant pass, and splashes truly terrible grain alcohol all over their own boot.

Boomer chases laughing, shrieking children until the sun starts to set and they finally step away, pleading exhaustion (untrue) and a dusty throat in need of another drink, one that hasn’t been spilled all over the sandy playing field (true).

Kal’Shebbol is harsh but beautiful. The lights of the village aren’t strong enough to block the stars beginning to rise in the velvety sky as twilight slowly turns to evening. The air is turning cool, finally.

A fiddler and two melodium players pick up a catchy reel, and a dance circle breaks out. Boomer makes their way around it, new drink in hand, and spots Cog. He’s sitting at one of the ramshackle tables set up around the fire pit, which hasn’t been lit just yet. He’s watching the dancers with something that might be a cousin to longing. Under the table, one of his feet periodically twitches, like he wants to tap to the beat but keeps catching himself.

Boomer picks their way through the crowd.

“You know you want to,” says Boomer, and Cog looks up at them with that familiar flat look; the one that Boomer is probably not supposed to find as endearing as they do.

“Come on,” they say, grin softening into a smile. They steel themself and offer a hand in invitation. “Live a little, Cog.”

Cog frowns, but then, to Boomer’s surprise, he shoves his drink into Boomer’s outstretched hand. 

Boomer blinks and automatically accepts it. 

Cog is rolling his eyes at Boomer as he rises but he heads out onto the dance floor, where he’s greeted with cheers by the villagers. He takes up his position for the dance with a sureness that belies the show of reluctance he put on. He's still limping a little — the shuttle crash when they first attempted to land on-planet was tough on all of them, none more so than Cog. But there's a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

Beaming from ear to ear now, Boomer turns away to abandon the cups on the table, ready to go dance with Cog and trip over their two left feet. But then there’s a happy ruckus behind them, and when they look back, they find that Knight Tai has appeared. She’s demurring as one of the villagers says something to her, but she’s joining the dancers.

And then her eyes meet Cog’s, and all thought of stepping onto the dance floor leaves Boomer’s head like atmosphere being sucked straight out of an airlock.

The musicians start to play. Knight Tai and Cog were standing in front of each other, which means that they move down the line together, arms raised, her right hand in his right hand, then left hand in left hand, back and forth with the steps of the dance. Knight Tai is smiling. Cog’s expression has gone warm. They’re not looking away from each other.

The two of them spent days alone in the desert together, after the shuttle crash separated the squad. 

Something, Boomer realizes, has changed.

Boomer sits down on the edge of the table with enough force to make the cups rattle. A clone trooper pilot and a Jedi Knight? The idea of it is astonishing enough on its own. On a person-to-person level, it's a mindblowing possibility Boomer has never considered— Cog and Knight Tai.

Boomer glances around, for confirmation that their eyes aren’t playing tricks. Dax is surrounded by small children, which means he’s almost certainly holding an animal of some sort. Bash vanished a while back, and so — coincidentally, Boomer is sure — did civil engineer Shiri Ovasu. Target has taken his helmet off, for once, and is pink in the face as he listens raptly to the clone medic Killjoy, who’s chopping a hand through the air as he expounds on something. That one may need a rescue, later.

Boomer alone has eyes on their Jedi and their pilot. 

The dancers are whirling about now, clapping and stomping rhythmically in time to the beat. It’s impossible to say what’s different, but there’s something there that wasn’t there before. It’s plain on both of their faces. Cog’s eyes are alight. Knight Tai dances like a promise of highly choreographed, exceedingly graceful future violence. 

“Well,” Boomer says to themself. “Hell.” They exhale and let their shoulders slump out of their military bearing. They scrub a hand over their face and ruefully start to laugh into their palm. 

Boomer raises their cup and salutes the dance floor and the oblivious dancers, who they will be properly delighted for just as soon as the immediate sting has faded, and they drain the dregs of their mug of rocket fuel booze.

The dancers’ collective joy is infectious. Boomer recognizes at least one of the refugees who they rescued from the mines earlier; a Twi’lek who’s ignoring the dance’s prescribed wild steps to playfully sway in the arms of their partner.

Boomer casts about again. There's still no sign of Bash. Dax has, if it's possible, attracted even more children, including the two Force-sensitive kids they'd rescued, and is definitely holding court over something small cupped in both hands. Killjoy has disappeared and Target looks a bit crestfallen, standing alone awkwardly.

Boomer hauls themself up. On their way across the warm circle of light cast by the nearest bonfire, they accept two drinks from a pretty Bothan who grips their arm in fervent thanks before insisting on pressing alcohol on them.

Boomer steps up beside Target and knocks their armored shoulders together. They offer him a cup. Target shoots it a wary look, but accepts the drink.

"What is it?" he asks. He can't be too heartbroken over Killjoy's departure if he's still got the sense to frown at alcohol of dubious provenance.

Boomer claps their rookie on the shoulder. "It's best not to think about it too much, buddy.”

* * *

It’s fair to say that Boomer doesn’t expect to ever set foot on Kal’Shebbol again in their life, so it’s a surprise to be sent back within a standard year. Knight Tai has been loaning Boomer out more and more often, lately, on solo missions — training commandos and civilians alike. There was a holodocumentarian embedded with their temporary unit on Agamar, last month, and it resulted in Boomer appearing on the newest recruiting poster for the Republic, which is possibly the funniest thing that has ever happened in all their 11 years.

Boomer's transport ship lands on the opposite side of the planet from the refugee settlement and the mines that they got to know the last time they were on-world. They're dropped into a months-long standoff between the Republic, Separatists, and a small but determined group of rebel forces that’s trying to fight both off their planet.

Still, on-the-other-side-of-the-planet is much closer than the rest of the squad’s position out in the Tion System so, on Bash’s request, Boomer sends a big data dump to local engineer Shiri Ovasu as soon as the troop carrier lands.

Amid the organized chaos of two fresh clone troop battalions coming off the transport, Boomer pauses to take stock and get their bearings. It was definitely a more pleasant landing, this time around. Far less crashing. A promising start.

This side of the planet looks much like the other — long stretches of desert, craggy mountains rising into the sky in the distance. The foot of those mountains, Boomer knows, is where the Separatists have holed up. 

The Grand Army of the Republic garrison is a seemingly endless stretch of neatly-aligned tents and crates, troopers hustling to offload supplies from the transport, including one squad marching past. 

Situational awareness has never been a particular strong suit, for Boomer. The first inkling they have that they're about to get tackled is when someone shouts their name in the split second before a heavy body in full armor slams into them.

Boomer staggers backward under the onslaught and only stays on their feet by grabbing hold of their assailant, who's laughing and barely manages to stay up himself.

Boomer knows that raucous laugh immediately. "Struts!" they crow, and the two of them lurch together, laughing.

Struts draws back first, ripping off his helmet and clapping his free hand down on Boomer's arm. His armor is so dusty that he’s clearly been on-planet for some considerable amount of time. "Look at you! What is this hair?"

"It's growing out," Boomer says, grinning. "It'll get there. What the hell are you doing on Kal’Shebbol?"

“I’m stationed here, laserbrain. Are you?” asks Struts.

Boomer shakes their head. “On loan for four days.”

When Struts grins, it’s all teeth. “Making things explode?”

Boomer grins back. “Teaching civilians to do it themselves.”

“Maybe teach ‘em to hang onto their eyebrows, look at you,” exclaims Struts, staring at Boomer’s face, and Boomer laughs.

“Not a requirement, but I’ll think about encouraging it,” they say cheerfully.

"Struts!" bellows an officer from the passing squad, and Struts waves off the trooper and turns back to Boomer.

“Listen, I know you’re gonna be real busy teaching people how to turn things into a fine mist, but think you’ll have time?”

“For you? Always,” Boomer says, batting their eyelashes, and Struts laughs but there’s heat in his expression now.

“You still talk so much shavit,” says Struts. He reaches out and they clasp each other's forearms warmly. “I’m off tomorrow, second cycle. Come by post 11, tent 512.”

*

By the time Boomer finally finishes with their squad of would-be demolitionists, the long hours and longer journey have caught up with them. They haven’t slept since the transport ship, and their civilian trainees were field-tested much earlier than originally planned when the camp was nearly overrun by rebels. GAR troops fought off the surprise attack, suffering few casualties in the process, but there was altogether more sneaking, crawling, charge-setting, and garroting than Boomer had allotted for the day, and their feet are dragging now.

They shake their head violently in an attempt to wake up, and trudge onward, helmet tucked under their arm. Two troopers stagger past, one hopping on one leg, shin armor burned and pitted, and the other with a supportive arm slung around the wounded trooper. Somewhere in the distance, there’s the low sound of heavy artillery fire; turbolaser blasts, which have no impact over the long klicks separating the Republic and Separatist encampments, but keep everyone on their toes.

Tent 510, 511... 512.

Boomer stops in front of the neatly-pitched tent. The flap is closed. “Struts,” they call out.

The tent is ominously silent.

Boomer glances back over their shoulder, watching the two troopers turn the corner toward the med tent where the casualties are being taken, and then Boomer pushes Struts’ tent flap aside and enters.

There are a couple of motionless dark shapes in hammocks that have been rigged up around the dark tent. One of them lifts its head and, through the light streaming in the open tent flap, Boomer sees Struts’ familiar bleary-eyed look. His hair has grown a few centimeters longer than the regulation-standard buzzcut and is standing on end.

Struts yawns and lifts the corner of a blanket in invitation.

Boomer drops the tent flap behind them and, after giving their eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light, picks their way past three snoring troopers. They set down their helmet, unclasp their boots, and start methodically removing their armor, fingers clumsy with exhaustion.

Struts is half-asleep again by the time they’ve stripped down to their bodysuit, but wakes enough to roll slightly to one side and then start laughing when Boomer nearly dumps them both straight out of the hammock. It’s not built for two fully-grown clone troopers, and the only way to manage it is for them to pile together in the center. Boomer slings a leg and an arm over Struts, who just grunts, refusing to open his eyes, and stuffs his face into Boomer’s shoulder. 

It should be uncomfortable, but instead it feels like a pile of kids falling asleep together after field training on cold nights on Kamino.

*

Boomer is woken by someone moving.

Half-awake, Boomer stretches, and is only saved by the fact that Struts is a steady counterweight in the hammock that Boomer forgot they were in.

Struts cackles as the hammock sways violently like an earthquake and Boomer swears. He has an arm around Boomer's waist. “What time are you back on duty?”

“1300,” says Boomer, knuckling at their eyes. The sense of a strange, unpleasant dream is already fading, lost in the thin pre-dawn light and the warmth of a familiar body. 

“What a coincidence; me too,” says Struts smugly.

“What time is it?”

“0700,” Struts says, and the two of them grin at each other for a second before Struts pulls Boomer into a lazy kiss fraught with promise.

It’s a long couple of minutes before Boomer finally thinks to glance over to the other three hammocks. They’re empty now.

Struts follows their glance. His face is flushed and his hair already looks like he stuck his head in a Corellian corvette’s engine. “They owed me,” he says. “We've got time.”

“Six hours? Ambitious,” says Boomer.

“Are you really going to lay there and pretend you can’t remember what happened on Christophsis?” Struts asks, and Boomer bursts out laughing, pressing their face into the side of Struts’ neck.

Struts' voice shakes with equal amounts of suppressed mirth and disgust, chest quivering under Boomer. “So young and so vaping stupid.”

“Worth it, though,” they finally manage, still chuckling.

“Speak for yourself; I almost got demoted for that fiasco.”

“The only thing hurt was your pride."

“And my dick!” says Struts indignantly, and Boomer loses it again.

Struts punches their arm, hard, and the hammock swings wildly.

“Speak for yourself, anyway; you’re moving up in the galaxy, eh, _Sergeant_?” Struts says, once Boomer has mostly managed to stop laughing.

“I’m getting old,” Boomer says, smiling. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

“Hmm. Not too old, I hope,” says Struts, right up against Boomer’s mouth. Struts is still a grabby little Kowakian monkey-lizard and he gets two handfuls of Boomer's hair in a way that bodes well for Boomer's entire technically-not-regulation hair experiment. They have a vague plan of growing it long enough to braid it. Knight Tai's not exactly a stickler for GAR grooming regulations.

“Definitely too old to kriff in a hammock,” says Boomer, once the two of them finally part, and Struts sniggers.

“Yeah, me too. Come on, Grandparent," says Struts, and he kicks a couple blankets out of the hammock. Force knows where he got them all; the one standard GAR-issued thermal blanket, this is not. "Let’s put your back out on the ground.”

"Classy," says Boomer, laughing and helping to shove blankets onto the tent's floor.

"I've taken you worse places," Struts points out, extremely accurate in more ways than one.

*

It’s good. It always is, with Struts, no matter how many years lie between them. 

*

They pass cold ration bars back and forth and catch up, still wrapped up in each other in Struts’ blanket nest on the ground. 

Struts has propped himself up on one elbow but is in danger of falling over because he’s laughing so hard he's nearly crying. "You accidentally inhaled an airborne drug that made you rage," he wheezes. " _You_?"

"My squad threw me in a pit to make me cool my heels," Boomer says, cheerfully rueful, and Struts howls. Boomer shoves him and Struts flops over onto his back.

"They mutinied you," Struts says admiringly, to the top of the tent. “I can’t believe you have enough authority to be mutinied on." He lets his head roll to the side so he can eye Boomer. “How are you supposed to be out there like a sitting mynock taking enemy fire while you set detonation charges, if you're the one giving the orders now?”

“I have the power to order everyone else to retreat,” Boomer says, grinning, and Struts snorts, reaching across them for a sip from his canteen.

"They're good?" Struts asks, propping himself back up on his side again, his head in his hand. He offers Boomer the canteen. "This new squad?”

"The best," says Boomer warmly. "Our Jedi wasn't sure at first, but she's come a long way from the Temple. She watches out for us now."

Jedi or not, commanding officers don't always. They've both seen enough clones chewed up and spit out to know that.

"Sounds like a sweet deal," says Struts, a little wistfully. He's said enough that Boomer already knows he's chafing under inaction and getting to know a new squad; yesterday's incursion by the local rebels was the most action the garrison had seen in months.

"They’re good ones,” Boomer says, in the understatement of the age. “Maybe a little unconventional."

Struts makes a low, helpless sound of amusement and then, to Boomer's surprise, he reaches out and cups their face in his hand. "Yeah,” he says, “because the one thing you've always been is just like everyone else."

"That's me," says Boomer, both cheerful and uncharacteristically caught off-balance. They furrow their eyebrows at Struts. "All about maintaining GAR norms."

With his thumb, Struts is absently stroking above Boomer's left eye, where half of their eyebrow was singed off a few years ago and never grew back. 

Boomer had been counting on initiating a round two once they both had a chance to recover, but if Struts keeps that up, Boomer’s going to fall asleep here instead. They falter and their eyes start to go half-lidded.

Struts suddenly pulls his hand back. "You're a maniac and you know it," he says, giving Boomer's face two hard pats in quick succession, putting the two of them back on familiar ground. "What're you going to do with yourself when you run out of droids to blow up?"

"I'm not worried about the Separatists' droid supply," says Boomer.

Struts' sharp face is falling into unusually thoughtful lines. He goes silent, hand skating down Boomer’s side. "You ever think about it?" he finally asks. "What happens when the war is over?"

Boomer doesn't have to think about it. "Nope."

"Stang, you could at least pretend it's a hard question, Boomer."

"Why pretend? We're soldiers," says Boomer.

"And when we're not anymore?"

"I'll go where we're ordered," they say. "We all will," but that's not entirely true. 

They haven't thought about it for themself; that part is true. There's no point — they live in the moment. They always have. They enjoy themself and they follow orders. They've never known anything else. They have the rare moment of curiosity, seeing a chef cook a strange-smelling meal over a hot grill on a new planet or watching children run and play, but they've never truly wanted anything else.

But they have thought about it for their people.

Desertion is something Boomer has never abided. They're all soldiers. But Dax can't be a lifer. No matter how discreet he is — and he really isn't, not when there's healing to be done — his Force sensitivity is a dangerous secret. It can't stay down forever. Boomer's the only one who knows, and when it comes out, they're going to have a very short time to react. They haven’t talked to Dax about it, but it’s a choice, they know, that they’ve already made.

Once Boomer opened that can of brain worms after finding out about Dax, it was hard to close it again. 

In another life, Bash easily could have been some kind of archivist or reporter. For Cog, the Republic will always need talented pilots. Knight Tai can return to her academic research when the war ends.

Target's harder. His talents are particularly well suited to the battlefield, like Boomer's, and he's seeing more of the galaxy these days (maybe a little too much of it, given the hangdog look he came back with from his last loaned-out deployment) but he's never known anything else. Still, his survival skills rank among the best Boomer has ever seen — he could do a lot with those talents. He's young enough to learn.

Struts says something. He jabs Boomer in the side of the head.

Boomer blinks and shakes it off. "Sorry. What?"

"Just — think about it," Struts says, looking tired now. "That's all I'm saying. Doesn't have to be now. There’s some bad shavit, Boomer. I know you're allergic to plans—"

"Hey now," says Boomer mildly.

"But it won't kill you to have at least considered the thought of making one."

Boomer waits for a solid five seconds before they give in and ask, "What's the bad shavit?"

Struts exhales, his expressive face setting into tight lines. "Vets getting reassigned from squads they've been with for years." 

"That's not unusual," says Boomer cautiously, knowing that’s what happened to Struts himself. "Spreading experience around as the new troopers come out of Kamino." Boomer themself has been a member of no less than four squads — a high number, sure, but not unheard of.

"I know that. But it's happening more than it used to," Struts says darkly, and there's a twist of genuine pain in the set of his mouth. "All in good standing with the GAR, all close with their squad and their Jedi, all moved to backwaters or killed in some of the ugliest fighting on the front."

Struts is many things but he's no conspiracy theorist, and he’s not one to be so bitter over his own changing fortunes. Boomer has an ugly sinking feeling in the pit of their stomach. The bright morning starts to fall away.

"Who?" they ask, and their misgivings are realized when Struts' face fully falls.

"I wasn't going to tell you like this," he says, and then, because Struts is nothing if not blunt, he finishes, "Veff. On Haruun Kal."

Veffoc — the third member of their trio of foolish kids from their very first unit.

Even after spending the last standard year hopping from assignment to assignment with their squad across the Outer Rim, Boomer knows what happened on Haruun Kal. General Billaba lost almost her entire battalion of clone troopers and was bested by General Grievous in single combat. Hundreds dead. Only a handful of troopers and Billaba herself survived. Fleet scuttlebutt says she's still in a coma on Coruscant.

Boomer exhales, hard. Their chest is heavy; their eyes hot. They reach up and scrub at their face.

Struts says, quietly, "I can name half a dozen others off the top of my head, Boom. Veff got the worst of it, but more of us are being reassigned than you'd think."

"I hadn’t talked to him in a year or two," says Boomer, into their hands.

"We all know what you're like with comms," he says, which stings a bit, even if it's accurate. Boomer lowers their hands to look at Struts. "He got word to me a week before the battle. Wasn't happy about the move, but said he'd make the best of it."

Veff never met a situation that he couldn't make the best of.

Boomer takes a deep, rattling breath and asks roughly, “His whole squad?” 

“Yeah,” says Struts, and they both stew in the grimness of that for a minute, and then he exhales and puts his head on Boomer’s shoulder. 

Struts and Veff were stationed together for years longer than Boomer managed to stay with them; they were only separated and reassigned a few months ago. Boomer slings an arm around Struts. 

His bare skin is warm under their hand; the pulse of blood through his veins feels as low and comfortingly familiar as the turbolasers thundering again in the distance. Boomer traces fresh scars and a new tattoo, hand slowly skimming back and forth across Struts’ back.

"You know he'd haunt us if he thought we were stopping on his account," Boomer says, after what feels like an eternity. Veff always insisted there was something between Boomer and Struts; more serious than any actual feelings they had.

Struts barks a sharp noise that Boomer thinks was supposed to be a laugh, and clears his throat. "Kriff, he was so weird about that," he says unevenly, and he presses his mouth to Boomer’s shoulder, but it’s clear that neither of them has their heart in it anymore.

Once, they would have spent an unadvisedly long time screwing like ash rabbits and then five minutes wolfing down rations and frantically gearing up to go on shift, each hopping around the tent with half their armor and one greave on before realizing they're both wearing the other trooper's left boot.

Boomer is older and wiser, now — you snatch sleep when you can get it. On the kind of unspoken agreement you can only reach with someone you've known most of your life, they both doze off. 

Boomer tumbles into dreams of gleaming bare white armor marching out of the barracks on Kamino, and falling like dominos. 

*

Some things never change: Boomer and Struts wake up with only five minutes until shift change.

“I thought you set an alarm, you mynock!” Struts shouts, hucking pieces of armor across the tent at Boomer.

“I did,” Boomer points out, hopping on one foot as they peel their bodysuit back on. They point at the chrono making high-pitched insistent noises that they’d both slept through. 

They nearly get brained by their own helmet, as Struts throws it at them with some force. 

In the aftermath of the throw, Struts is staring at his own hands. “Wait, kriff, these are yours—” He yanks off the gloves he’s wearing and pelts Boomer with them.

By dint of not having accidentally put half of Struts’ armor on and then having to take it back off again, Boomer finishes gearing up first and winds up on their knees fitting Struts’ leg armor while Struts swears above them and frantically shoves his chest plate on.

It’s all very familiar.

The second that the armor over Struts’ right knee clicks into place, he grabs Boomer under the arms and drags them up. “Take care of yourself, you space pirate," he says. "Keep all your parts attached to you."

"You too— Buddy, you're gonna be late, go," Boomer says, shoving him out of the tent.

Struts hesitates, outside, in a way Boomer has never seen from him before. "Boomer," he says, face grave. He stops.

Boomer steps in. They reach up and grasp the back of Struts' neck in one gloved hand, and rest their foreheads together. "It’ll be fine."

"You're full of it," says Struts, resigned. “And you’re such an idiot.” There's a thin thread of laughter in his voice. He tilts his head and kisses Boomer, standing there in the light with their helmets in hand.

*

Boomer makes it to their trainees' rendezvous point with barely enough time to fall from a brisk jog into a purposeful walk as they round the last rock outcropping. Ideally it looks like they intended to stroll up just as the chrono hit 1300.

There are a dozen trainees waiting, which means they've all come back after yesterday's chaos; an auspicious start. They're a mix of volunteers — several members of Kal'Shebbol's former planetary defense force; a pair of sibling security officers from the planet's largest city, who move like they're two halves of one whole; a few refugees who had some manner of military or self-defense training on their own planets; one particularly insubordinate young trainee who Boomer is almost certain is or was some kind of smuggler.

"Welcome back," says Boomer, pack in hand. "Who's ready to learn how to jury-rig a detonator?"

There's a ripple of interest through the group. The probable-smuggler raises her hand like she's in school. They all crowd around as Boomer starts pulling supplies from their pack.

Boomer can't do anything for Veff or for their siblings who were stolen for parts in the Clawdite's scheme, now. They can’t watch Struts’ back from systems away. But they can train ten people who'll each train five more, who'll each train five more, and eventually, in theory, there'll be local support teams webbed out across the galaxy. Teams that could provide civilian backup to GAR troops.

It's a good theory.

*

"I come bearing no gifts," Boomer announces as they climb the shuttle’s ramp, pack thrown over their shoulder. On the last solo mission they took before returning to Kal'Shebbol, they'd found themselves with leftover credits to burn and a few hours to themself in the colorful markets on Thyferra's capital city, and they'd gleefully come back to the squad with a sack full of trinkets. The violently green hair dye they'd picked up at a vendor's stall had been a particular hit with Target.

Kal'Shebbol is no Thyferra squarely on the Rimma Trade Route. Boomer never set foot outside the Republic garrison on-planet, and couldn't have made purchases even if they had visited a nonexistent enormous city; they'd only had the novel experience of Republic-supplied credits as part of their undercover identity on Thyferra. Clone troopers don't draw pay.

It's only Cog and Dax in the ship's communal space at the moment. Dax is seated at the table, diligently detailing the intricate blue design that runs down the right shoulder of his armor, while Cog stands by the ship’s ramp controls.

"Except a truly terrible holonovel, for any interested parties," Boomer continues. "Cog?" They draw out his name and waggle their eyebrows at him.

Cog snorts and punches Boomer’s shoulder as he walks past them, moving back toward the cockpit. That's a warm welcome if Boomer has ever received one. _Somebody's_ getting a bootleg copy of a holonovel.

"You were a hard squad to find," Boomer says to Dax, setting their helmet on the table. "I was halfway back to the Tion Cluster before I found out you were with the Fleet above Boz Pity; had to jump ship to another transport. What’re we doing on the edge of Hutt space?"

"Rendezvous with the Fleet for shuttle parts," says Dax. "There were pirates? It was a thing."

"I miss all the fun," says Boomer.

There’s no sign of Bash or H1F1 in their shared bunkroom. Knowing Bash, he’s probably out taking the opportunity to socialize with off-duty troopers stationed on the cruiser their damaged shuttle is currently parked on. 

Boomer sets their heavy pack down with a tremendous thud, and exhales, looking around the empty room. Slowly, they start to unpack.

*

The full squad starts gathering around chow time. First Bash joins Boomer and Dax at the table (as far as Boomer can tell, without asking outright in hearing distance of their brothers, Dax’s secret is still a secret), then Target slinks in, Cog arrives from looming menacingly over the shuttle repairs, and finally Knight Tai appears, seemingly from nowhere, as they’re all pulling out rations. 

"Boomer," Knight Tai says, over the general din of the squad passing around, trading, and negotiating over different flavors of ration packs. "Welcome back."

“Glad to be back,” says Boomer, tipping two fingers to their forehead in what’s possibly the laziest salute of all time. They take the ration pack that Target hands them, that supposedly tastes like rygg noodles (it does not, Boomer knows from long experience).

Across the table, Cog makes eye contact and makes the hand sign for 'status,' with a questioning tilt to his head. 

"It was good. They learned fast," Boomer says. "If anyone does something they shouldn't while setting charges, it won't be for lack of knowing better.” They lean forward over their ration pack. “But I hear there were adventures with pirates."

That’s good for at least ten minutes of collective storytelling. 

Target apparently only returned from his own mission yesterday — his hair is currently dyed the colors of a snekfruit, Boomer can’t help but notice — so he missed the pirate shenanigans as well, and he’s quickly drawn into the tale by Bash with the occasional interjection from Dax. Knight Tai and Cog are deep in conversation, half in signs; Boomer thinks they’re talking about a game of dejarik they’ve apparently started playing. 

Boomer keeps half an eye on them, out of curiosity and also what is, at this point, deeply genuine investment in their happiness, but as ever, they can’t tell what’s going on between the two of them (they tried, once and only once, in their capacity as a friend, to ask Cog about Knight Tai in a roundabout sort of way, and they Will Not Be Making That Mistake Again). 

Dax says something that has both Bash and Target laughing, and H1F1 making indignant blurting noises. 

Boomer has eaten a lot of meals sitting around a shuttle or around a fire with clones and with Jedi, over the years. They’ve always been fond of their squads.

But they’d do anything for this one. 

*

Boomer volunteers to handle clean-up. There’s not much to clean, with self-heating ration packs, and they’ve already spent more than enough time sitting on their ass with nothing to do but grieve over the last few days, on the journey back to the squad. 

It takes a few minutes for the common space to clear out. Bash inadvertently speeds the process along by pulling H1F1 down to check its recording equipment. He doesn’t seem to actually be recording anything, but both Dax and Target still escape so fast that Boomer almost laughs.

Unexpectedly, it’s Knight Tai who lingers longest. Boomer was expecting Bash, or maybe Cog, to be the one to wait them out. 

Boomer glances across the table at Knight Tai, startled enough by her presence to stop stacking empty ration packages. 

"You’ve been ... quiet," she says. "Should I have denied the request for your time?"

"The mission was fine," Boomer says, shaking their head. They hesitate for a moment. Knight Tai is steadily watching them, clearly listening, hands folded in front of herself. But Boomer’s not ready to start talking about nightmares of shining white armor falling in waves. "I got some news about an old friend. He died on Haruun Kal."

Knight Tai isn't one to wince, but Boomer thinks if she was, this would be the moment. Her face tightens. "I'm sorry, Boomer," she says. "What happened there... It was an atrocious mess."

"Is General Billaba really still in bacta?" they ask, because it’s easier than anything else they might ask.

She nods. "As far as I'm aware."

They whistle softly, shaking their head, and toss the packages into a bin for the compactor. “That’s a long time to be in a coma.”

“Boomer,” says Knight Tai. “With respect, we weren’t discussing Master Billaba.”

It’s clearly an invitation; one that Boomer feels abruptly overwhelmed by. “No, I know.” Their voice sounds thick to their own ears. “Thank you.” They swallow the ‘sir’ that tries to come out of their mouth, and they nod to her, firmly.

Knight Tai puts her hand on Boomer's shoulder, for a moment, as she leaves the galley.

*

Boomer lies awake in their bunk, watching the lights from whatever device Bash is silently fiddling with flash across their dark, tiny quarters. 

The galaxy knows Depa Billaba’s name. But no one knows the names of the handful of clone troopers who survived Haruun Kal, or the seven hundred who were lost. Only the siblings who were left behind remember.

Boomer has, as Struts would pointedly remind them, lost touch with most of the members of their original squad, but, through Veff and Struts, they know their numbers are dwindling at this point in the war. Veff’s entire second squad died with him. If anything happened to Boomer and Struts and the few remaining survivors from Ghost Squad, would anyone even remember Veff’s name?

Veffoc was bright and full of life and completely without guile, brimming over with optimism. His snoring sounded like Klatooinian yodeling. Once he dropped a Belbullab-22 snubfighter on a pair of battledroids — a move that almost got his name changed to Overkill. 

Boomer feels fairly certain they've told that last story to someone in Snekfruit Squad before, but it's different, now, knowing Veff isn't out there in the galaxy somewhere with his ears burning. 

“Hey Bash,” says Boomer, and the lights playing across the ceiling pause.

“Yeah?” asks Bash, out of the darkness.

“Could you and H1F1 record something for me, tomorrow?”

H1F1 boops softly, powered most of the way down but inquisitive. 

There’s a split-second pause before Bash answers, betraying what Boomer suspects is surprise at the request. 

“Definitely. What did you have in mind?” Bash asks.

“I want to talk about someone.”

Boomer pushes forward. It doesn’t mean they have to stop looking back.


End file.
